


Driving Your Boyfriend Home

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Tales of 2005, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 12:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17787587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: The streets are dark and empty as they drive quietly through the night. Joe’s got a metal CD in his car that he knows Patrick would hate, but Patrick doesn’t turn on the radio anyway.“’m sorry for the fight,” Patrick breaks the lingering silence. His breath smells of alcohol, too. “Pete’s – Pete’s an idiot. I’m an idiot. ‘s why we’re such a perfect match. Turn left.”Joe does as told, turns left, eyes darting back and forth between the dark streets and the glimpse of Patrick’s pale face from under the hat and the jacket he’s bundled up in. He would like to offer some kindness, some reassuring words, but Joe has never been good with those, and he’s never been a good liar either.





	Driving Your Boyfriend Home

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!
> 
> I originally wanted to write something else - that didn't work out, and then I turned to a concept I've been playing with ever since listening to the Morrissey song "Driving Your Girlfriend Home". Said song set the theme, gave the title, and you should go listen to it!  
> Thanks to snitches for beta reading and listeing to me bitch and whine about Valentine's Day. 
> 
> Anyway, on with the story! Artwork, as always, done by me. Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

There’s a snowstorm outside, leaving Chicago cold and wet with half-melted, dirty snow.

 

Inside, the former underground darlings of the Chicago music scene and current – or aspiring – hot bands of America’s music industry are caught up celebrating Valentine’s Day. It’s always nice to have an excuse to get shitfaced, it lifts the burden of a guilty conscience and makes the alcohol go down so much easier.

 

Joe’s not part of the loud crowd, he doesn’t even really want to be here, he’s just here because the thought of being home alone and painfully single on this stupid Valentine’s Day was just worse enough than the prospect of another shitty party.

The rest of his band must be here too, somewhere; he thinks Andy might’ve left already with a skinny little scene girl, all inked and all over Andy last time Joe saw them from the corner of his eye. Everyone’s getting laid it seems, but Joe just wants this evening to be over. He barely knows half the people here, it’s not really his crowd, Pete’s the one who does the networking, mostly.

 Speaking of the devil, Pete is approaching him now, but not with the hottest new artist in tow, but with the well-known face of their lead singer looking somewhat embarrassed and even more annoyed. For a split second, Joe considers pretending he hasn’t seen them, ducking away and just fleeing the incoming trouble. He doesn’t. Mostly because he knows he’s years too late for that.

 

Pete throws an arm around his shoulder, and Joe can smell the alcohol on him, along with a cologne that definitely doesn’t belong to Patrick. “Trohman, I’ve got a huge favor to ask,” Pete shouts over the music, “you gotta – gotta take home Patrick for me, dude.”

“Why me?” Joe asks, as if he doesn’t know. He’s the only one of them still sober, designated driver for the desperate. (Well, weed and alcohol don’t mix well for him, which is the real reason he hasn’t been drinking today.) “And why just Patrick?”

Pete withdraws from him, throws his arm over Patrick’s shoulder now instead, grinning. Patrick doesn't look like he finds this amusing; narrowed eyes turned downwards, he’s tense in Pete’s arms. He hasn’t said a word yet.

“Because little Tricky is tired, but, like Saint Cyndi, I just wanna have fun!” Pete breaks into a small giggle, leans in to smack a kiss to Patrick’s bright-red cheek. Patrick scoffs, and pushes Pete away from him. The first sparks of a conflict pollute the air, make Joe uncomfortable as well; he’s not in the mood to have to settle this age-old argument between his two friends.

“Pete, please. Come home,” Patrick pleads, he sounds so desperate and childish and Joe wants to both hit him and hug him. Meanwhile, Pete does neither of these things, he just laughs, loose and high from the alcohol buzzing through his veins.

“Can’t sleep anyway, Pattycakes. I’d only annoy you with my hyperactivity. I know, because you always complain. I’d rather have some fun, and you can go home and sleep.”

 

Joe can see the unasked questions on Patrick’s trembling lips – will Pete be there in the morning? With him, Patrick, and not whoever else Pete might spend his night with? Does Patrick need to worry? Ah, how futile. Patrick always worries, and Patrick doesn’t really ask these questions anymore, because the answers are mostly disappointing.

 

There were times when Patrick would’ve punched Pete outright, Joe remembers the early days of terrible temper, of screams and anger and surprising strength all bundled up in a 5’4”, nerdy-looking, freshly appointed singer. Patrick doesn’t do that anymore, not that often at least, in public. Sometimes, Joe can hear them argue when they’re on a nightly drive to the next venue. Sometimes, Pete and Patrick show up with bruised knuckles and colorful stains on their skin from both love and hate and everything in between. Joe can’t always differentiate. Maybe, the two of them can’t either.

 

The party around them goes on, not bothered by the lover’s quarrel.

 

“Guys, make up your minds,” Joe says nervously, wishing he’d had some liquid courage, too. Or at least some weed. “I’ll… I’ll take both of you home, it’s fine, and -”

“It’s okay,” Patrick interrupts him angrily, “let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

Patrick storms past Joe, ignoring how Pete calls him back, demanding a goodbye kiss. All Joe can do is awkwardly wave at Pete, then follow Patrick. When Joe turns around one last time, Pete is already lost somewhere in the crowd.

 

They’re sitting in Joe’s sensible Prius, the already half-broken heater cranked up to the max so that it might stand a chance against the Chicago winter. Really, a futile act. Joe’s meant to get the heater repaired for weeks now, just never found the time and well, he’s not driving the car much either. He’s used to the new and relative comfort of the tour buses, cabs, the label’s cars picking them up. Joe meant to buy a better car either, now that they’re semi-rich (or, at least according to Pete, on their way to get there) and somewhat famous, but why buy a car you never get to drive?

It’s still cold, they both keep their jackets on. Patrick has his arms crossed, the silly Vinyl Nerd logo hat perched on his head, strands of his disheveled, too-long hair peeking out beneath. The coldness, alcohol and anger color his cheeks a dark shade of red.

The streets are dark and empty as they drive quietly through the night. Joe’s got a metal CD in his car that he knows Patrick would hate, but Patrick doesn’t turn on the radio anyway.

 

“’m sorry for the fight,” Patrick breaks the lingering silence. His breath smells of alcohol, too. “Pete’s – Pete’s an idiot. I’m an idiot. ‘s why we’re such a perfect match. Turn left.”

 

Joe does as told, turns left, eyes darting back and forth between the dark streets and the glimpse of Patrick’s pale face from under the hat and the jacket he’s bundled up in. He would like to offer some kindness, some reassuring words, but Joe has never been good with those, and he’s never been a good liar either.

 

The silence encourages Patrick to keep rambling. “Perfect match – Pete told me that from the very start. I dunno, did I ever even really get to choose? I was sixteen, and he just – he just came into my life,” he mumbles, red hands clutched into the fraying fabric of his jeans jacket.

Joe agrees with him. Pete just came into their lives, a shiny and (in)famous underground celebrity blinding everyone, a black hole sucking them in the second they got too close. Joe has known him for longer, but he also knew Patrick before Pete got to know him, back when star-struck Joe thought he had a really good drummer on his hands, when lovesick little Joe wanted to show off his crush to the older guy he admired, not knowing he was leading the prey to the hungry predator.

Patrick sniffles, rubs his hands together; Joe catches a glimpse of his profile, the petal-plush of Patrick’s parted lips, the way his lashes overshadow his pretty blue eyes, the red flowers still blooming on his cheeks. It’s so unfair – Joe found him first.

“Sixteen,” Patrick mumbles barely loud enough for Joe to hear it, “Pete’s been pulling this shit with me since I was fucking _sixteen_.”

 

Joe might have introduced Pete, but Pete had and has a way with people, knows how to make them their own. He knew how to get Joe to drive him around when Pete lost his driver’s license, he knew how to persuade Patrick to join the band as a singer, it was only a matter of time until he’d dug his wanting hands into the wanton flesh of barely-jailbait Patrick, never to let go.

 

In hindsight, Joe knows he never stood a chance against Pete, the older, experienced, attractive guy, the one who’s loud and weird and extrovert, the one who’s pierced and inked; all while Joe’s young, younger than Patrick even, he’s quiet and too weak for Arma Angelus, with his shitty shaved-off bleached hair and clothes that his mom bought for him. Joe found him first, but Pete made his moves before Joe could even realize he would lose Patrick forever.

 

Joe found him first, only to lose him oh so carelessly.

 

“’m sorry you have to drive me home,” Patrick slurs, and drops of drool land on his bandana. The black fabric clashes with the bright orange of his shirt, it doesn’t match the brown hat or the jeans jacket either. Patrick is a walking fashion disaster, hiding behind it because it’s easier than to try and compete with Pete. Patrick’s own arrogance keeps him from looking at himself too closely. “Pete’s – Pete’s right though, I’d just be annoyed with him home...”

Joe clears his throat, grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “Don’t worry, dude. You’re my friend.” He hates himself for having nothing but empty platitudes. “And I think Pete was a dick to you. Why do you keep putting up with him?”

“’m not _putting up with him_.” Patrick slumps forward to send an angry glare at Joe while he makes air quote signs. “I fuckin’ love him. He loves me. He deals with my shit as well. ‘s just… Just a bad day.”

“He’s having a lot of these bad days recently.” Joe doesn't look at Patrick while he says so, but he still knows Patrick is frowning, quietly fuming with anger.

“You forget what Pete’s like when he has a good day,” Patrick hisses, the smug smile on his lips half sadness, half nostalgia. “He’s not a bad guy. It’s not his fault his head is all messed up.”

 

No, Joe hasn’t forgotten what it’s like. He too is in a band with Pete, spends far more time with these guys than with anyone else, he’s still Pete’s friend in some twisted, fucked up way in this one-sided love triangle. He knows what Pete can be like, charming and passionate, funny and caring, big brown lovesick eyes seeing Patrick and Patrick alone.

And he knows what Pete’s like on the other days, he knows the mania, the sleeplessness, the masochistic anger. “Is he taking his meds?” Joe asks quietly, fingers drumming nervously against the steering wheel.

“Not my fucking problem. I’m not his goddamn caretaker!” Patrick bangs his fist against the window; a loud thud, he’s used a lot of force, but the glass is stronger than him, stands unharmed while it leaves Patrick’s knuckles scraped and red. It’s a well-known sight to Joe’s tired eyes.

“Whoa, leave my car alone, dude!” Joe reaches out to punch Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m just asking, there’s no need to smash my windows.”

Patrick hisses and mutters some swears, which makes Joe almost pull over so that they both don’t die in a car accident caused by a fistfight while driving. In the end, Patrick just sinks into his seat, arms crossed again, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes.

 

“Pete doesn’t like the meds,” Patrick slurs, head slumped against the cold glass of the window. “Says they make it even worse. That he’s not himself when he takes them. It scares him, and it scares me too – I don’t want Pete to just be an empty husk, a shell of his former self. I don’t want him to go overboard again, and...”

The silence hangs heavy between them as they both recall that fateful night not too long ago that ended with hospitals and a red-eyed, exhausted Patrick staying next to Pete’s bed for as long as staff would let him.

In his darker moments, Joe thinks it’s yet another manipulative tactic from Pete to reclaim and assert his hold over Patrick, and Joe hates himself for thinking so badly about his friend. He mostly hates himself for his inability to stop the poisonous thoughts from seeping into his brain.

 

“Pete should still take ‘em,” Joe continues nervously, “I mean, these doctors of his went to fancy medical schools and whatever, they must know more about mental health than a bunch of college-dropouts in their twenties.”

Patrick laughs, viciously and bitter. “Go tell Pete then, asshole. I’m so fucking tired of taking responsibility for his fuck-ups. He’s the one who’s half a decade older, he’s the one who’s sick, why the fuck do _I_ have to keep listening to everyone trying to tell me what to do when it’s _Pete’s_ goddamn life they want to control?! I’m doing so much for Pete already, I fucking love him to death, _why isn’t that good enough for you all?_ ”

He’s screaming now, even more red-faced and angry, halfway between tears and another serious attempt to smash the window or maybe grab the steering wheel and let them crash into the oncoming traffic. Joe swallows, but he isn’t Pete, he’s just going to stay silent and wait until Patrick calms down a little instead of riling him up even further.

After a few deep breaths, Patrick leans back into his seat again, hands still clenched into fists, but he doesn't continue to scream or cry so that’s something. He draws his knees up to his chest, gaudy sneakers staining the seat, which Joe decides not to comment on. Sitting like that, all hunched up and like he’s hugging himself only makes Patrick look even smaller, sadder, sends another surge of pain and pity through Joe.

 

“Turn left,” Patrick mumbles again, and Joe does. “Almost home. All alone and miserable on fucking Valentine’s Day. I don’t even care about this stupid holiday, I don’t _want_ to care, so why does Pete keep making me care so much?”

“Maybe you should’ve talked this through with Pete earlier,” Joe suggests carefully. “And hey, you know the only one waiting at home for me is my girl Mary Jane.”

 

Patrick rests his chin on his knees, eyes staring blankly at the dark streets ahead. “God, listen to me,” he says after a while, “I sound like a needy chick. Like one of the teenage scene whores Pete likes to bang. Pathetic, eh?” Patrick’s laughing again, but this time it’s a maniac’s hysterical laughing, semi-drunken sobs and giggles, tears streaming down his face, he can pass them off as tears of laughter and Joe won’t try to argue.

 

Joe lets Patrick be hysterical in peace, by now, he knows better than to try and interfere. A few minutes, then Patrick will have run out of fuel; he doesn’t have Pete’s manic energy. Joe eyes him again, that shaking little ball of tears and laughter, with his sideburns and terrible clothes.

 

Joe found him first, but Patrick was never his to take.

 

Joe found him first, but Patrick is no longer that sweet little kid that opened the door for Pete and Joe that fateful day in 2001.

 

He’s no longer the Patrick who blushed and whimpered when Joe kissed him first, back before Pete came into the picture, back in Patrick’s basement. The shy, giddy Patrick who only took off his shirt after Joe had blown him at least three times already – just when the thought of Pete started to put an end to their teenage fun.

He’s not the young and excited Patrick who moved into his first apartment, with that spark of joy and adventure in his baby-blue eyes, hands balled into fists, ready to take on life. He’s not wearing ratty jeans with holes and wrist bands anymore, his Transformer collectibles are no longer displayed, he’s not bitching about school, classes, teachers, all those mundane little things in their insignificant teenage lives. When he speaks of love, there’s no longer hope and happiness in his golden voice. When he lowers his eyes to stare at the ground whenever Pete says something hurtful, he’s no longer angry; his eyes are just empty.

 

Pete took that part of Patrick, and Joe will never forgive him for that.

 

“Sometimes, I wonder who I am.” Patrick speaks quietly, thoughtfully. “Pete’s been dragging me around ever since I was sixteen, so, who am I? He gave me he band. He got me into my first serious relationship. He said I love you to me. All the music I wrote for this album, I wrote for his words. What the fuck am I without him? The sum of everything Pete Wentz took away from me?”

“Don’t be stupid, Patrick. You’re so much more than that, and you’re more than just – more than just an extension of Pete.” Joe sounds angrier than he wants to, and he’s not sure if it’s genuine concern for his friend or the jealousy of a rejected lover.

“Sometimes, I think I like it too much,” Patrick continues, almost lightheartedly, with that hint of hysterical laughter bubbling up in his beautiful voice. “Being Pete’s, y’know. Having him. Fixing him. Hating him. Loving him. I keep complaining, so why haven’t I left? There must be some sort of fundamental flaw in my stupid brain, too. And maybe, Pete’s the only one who can deal with it. Maybe, I just… Just like _us_ , maybe I love _us_ together too much to give it up. That’s sick, isn’t it?”

 

The thing is, in a sick, twisted way, Patrick is right. In a maddening, infuriating way, he and Pete fit together perfectly. They’re paradise’s spoiled milk and rotten honey. They’re Bonny and Clyde, a round of bullets pumped into their hearts and halfway bled out already. They’re the sun and the moon on collision course.

 

Joe has little doubt that whatever fucked-up thing Pete and Patrick had and continue to have, Patrick likes it just as much. Maybe, staying in the well-known misery is more comfortable than the endless horror of the unknown. Maybe it’s the satisfaction of Patrick’s own self-hatred, maybe Pete made him like it.

 

Joe isn’t sure. All he knows is, he can’t answer Patrick. Even if he could, what good would that be? Would Patrick agree, get up, and leave Pete?

 

Joe hates being so fucking powerless. And he hates that he can’t bring his heart to walk away from this ticking time bomb, either.

 

Out in the dark, Pete and Patrick’s home has manifested on the dark, snowy side of the street. Joe parks the car, turns off the motor. The silence is eerie and heavy with the meaning of the words they both expect to be said soon.

“Thanks for driving me home,” Patrick says stiffly as he lowers his legs. One hand is on the door handle, but he makes no attempt to get out of the car.

“No problem, dude.” Joe clears his throat awkwardly. He should be saying goodbye. He should leave.

He should’ve left years ago. Instead, once more, he’s staying.

“So...” Patrick lowers his head, looks at Joe through half-veiled eyes. “Do you want to come up?”

 

Patrick’s a lost little boy that keeps going back to the wrong guys, and Joe should tell him so. Patrick is sad and desperate and craving any form of attention and affection, and Joe should tell him this is the wrong one. Patrick knows of Joe’s feelings, and Joe should know better. Patrick is engaging in the same fucked up bullshit as Pete, and Joe really should be stronger and say no, turn his back, get into his car, and drive away.

Joe should be a better, stronger person in this situation. As he’s learned, he’s not that better person they all need. Joe doesn’t know whether he never was, or if years of yearning for a guy he can’t have and watching a dysfunctional relationship turn two of his best friends into parodies of their former selves turned him into something ugly and twisted, too.

What he knows is that Patrick is shivering in the cold, his porcelain skin hidden under his thin layers of clothes he’ll let Joe take off now that he’s had a bit to drink and can forget his insecurities. A twisted dream served up on a scratched silver platter, he’s already asked Joe to come up, and all Joe needs to make that come true is to say one simple thing.

 

 

Joe cracks a small smile, and answers: “I sure do.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is a bit different from what I usually write, so I would really appreciate feedback <3 
> 
> Don't forget to check out all the other lovely stories of the creation challenge!~


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